


Past Lives

by Have_A_Laugh



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: CyberLife (Detroit: Become Human), Dehuminization, Elijah Kamski Being an Asshole, Gen, Is that a thing, It is now, Mind Games, Pre-Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Rehuminization???, don't worry guys hank'll be joining the party soon, hey don't worry about that major character death thing, it's vague y'know, so just..... don't worry bout it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 08:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16092278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Have_A_Laugh/pseuds/Have_A_Laugh
Summary: After Amanda's death, Elijah Kamski is at a loss. With no reason to listen to the company he created after they put a shackle on his work, he makes the most realistic human imitation he has yet: Connor. But Connor isn't quite realistic enough, so Kamski takes it upon himself to try again. And again. And again.Until he finally gets it right.(Pre-game, 2028, Kamski's a dick and Connor's totally just a machine. Will eventually go into the current timeline.)





	Past Lives

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is baby's first fic (I totally didn't orphan like three others before this, nope) so I'd really appreciate your feedback. Criticism is welcomed, kudos are hoarded like dragon's gold, and I may or may not update regularly!! We'll see!! Maybe, hopefully, but I dunno anymore than you do!! 
> 
> I think this thing might end up being pretty long, cuz I have like 50 different ideas for things I wanna include, but we'll see. Also this isn't a time-travel fic, sorry if the title misled you, haha. Enjoy!

A long, elegant finger swirls around the lip of a coffee mug, dancing over plumes of steam. Manicured nails painted a deep red tap on the ceramic, slowly, contemplatively, a staccato rhythm that keeps time with the set of feet pacing the room. Tap, tap, step. Tap, tap, step. 

“Derek.”

“Derek? No, no, definitely not. Noah, maybe.”

“Your secretary’s name is Noah.”

The tapping stops; then a sigh. The woman at the table pushes back her chair and stands, setting down her cup with a soft clink. She walks over to the wall-to-wall windows, to the thing stationed in front of them, and looks out over the waves. It’s a warm day outside, and the summer sun reflects sparkling light off the Detroit skyline in the distance. 

An objectively beautiful view.

She turns away from it and looks at her student and colleague, now sitting cross-legged at the end of the pool. She always thought it awfully ostentatious that he had a pool in the middle of his living room, but if Kamski could be defined in one word, it would be ostentatious. 

“You didn’t decide on a name before assembly?”

Kamski sighs and swirls a hand in the water. “No, I didn’t. I wanted this… to be something we did together.” 

Amanda resists the urge to laugh. Far too late now, she thought. 

“Well, its serial number would work perfectly fine for identification. Why would you need anything more?”

“This one is special,” Kamski says, standing up and coming to join Amanda’s side at the window. He looks at the android, studying its features. One hand comes up to cup its cheek, turning its head from side to side, examining the freckles, the wrinkles, the lips. Its CyberLife uniform is pressed and spotless, tie perfectly straight and shoes shined to a polish. The eyes remain set on a point in the distance, as dull and lifeless as a factory doll’s. On the blazer’s front, the numbers #313 248 317.

Not perfect, not yet. But it will be.

“What about Connor?”

Amanda hums. “Fine. I don’t understand why you’re making such a big fuss over it. Names don’t matter when it comes to androids.”

“Well, I like Connor.”

“Then Connor it is, Kamski. You’re the boss.”

A beat of silence, while they watch the waves sparkle in the sunlight. The silence stretches for a second too long, and Amanda turns her head toward Kamski, anticipating his response.

“About that.”

His voice has the barest hint of doubt in it, directed towards what he’s about to say next.

“It’s just… it hasn’t been the same recently. And it seems like things are progressing well, would progress just as well if I wasn’t… with the company.” He trails off on that last word, eyes unfocused as he sees something only he can see.

“Are you proposing that you resign?” Amanda prompts, voice neutral. This is a new development.

“I suppose so, yes. I think I’ll resign,” Kamski says quietly, eyes coming back into focus. “I can pursue other matters on my own time, without being constrained by the whims of the board.”

“What ‘other matters’, exactly?”

Kamski doesn’t answer. It’s times like these that Amanda thinks of Kamski more like a child than an adult. Pouting when he doesn’t get his way, hiding secrets from his parents when he knows he’s been bad. 

This is why she’s here, anyways. 

Amanda lays a hand on his shoulder. A phantom limb in the most literal sense of the world, without weight or feeling. Just an image, projected into being by lines of code. Nevertheless, Kamski looks at her, and she can see in his face that he’s serious about this. 

“Don’t do anything rash, Elijah. CyberLife still needs you at the helm. It can’t last on its momentum forever.”

“I know, Amanda. I’ll give it a month or two,” he says, “Release the EM400 model in June. That should give them enough ‘momentum’ to ride on while they scramble for a new figurehead.”

She pauses, finding it unusual that Kamski had thought it out this far. He must be serious. 

“Have you notified the board of your decision?”

A wicked grin spreads over his face. “No, and I don’t plan to until the day I announce it on CNN. Those bastards can handle the PR disaster I’ll leave in my wake on their own.”

Amanda lets her silence speak for itself. She supposes that while Kamski doesn’t want to see his company destroyed in the wake of his absence, he holds no love for the board. 

Kamski rolls his eyes at her, although she can tell that her disapproval stung just the slightest. “I think we’re done here. Goodnight, Amanda.”

Her feet disintegrate into fizzing shards of color, moving up until her legs and lower torso have disappeared. She gives a wry smile, the sound of her voice the last thing to remain after her face disintegrates into mist.

“Goodnight and good luck, Elijah.”

Kamski contemplates the spot where the hologram was standing seconds ago, before walking over to the table and picking up the coffee mug. It had never been moved at all; still hot, and full to the brim. He takes a sip, thinking. 

His posture changes, spine straightening and shoulders rolling back. He directs his sharp-eyed gaze towards the motionless android, and announces, “RK800, register your name: Connor.”

The plastic shell comes to life. Its stance shifts slightly wider, weight distributed evenly on the flats of its feet. Hands come up and straighten its black tie, smoothing down the shirt as they lower. The mouth quirks into a slight smile; the eyes crinkle at the corners, but remain black and dead. 

“Hello. My name is Connor.” 

* * *

  


The CyberLife processing plant is a whir of activity, even at 3 in the morning. In business around the clock, its few human workers have busy schedules. High-pitched mechanical whirring and buzzing are a constant background noise, making the plant sound like a hive of bees. White walls box the central room into cubes, holding robotic assembly arms that laser biocomponents together into fully-functioning androids. Human workers dressed in full-body safety suits perform cognitive tests, marking qualifications off on thin touchpads and sending them away to be packaged and shipped to CyberLife stores across the country. Walkways are filled with newly-assembled androids in clear, plastic packaging, whirring along atop low, four-wheeled carrier vehicles. 

From a control room fitted with security feeds of the entire process, Kamski and his android observe it all. 

“What do you think, Connor? This is how you were built, you know,” Kamski says, leaning against the control board in from of him. Buttons and screens flash with multi-colored lights, giving constant updates on the status of the warehouse’s various parts. 

“CyberLife’s efficiency is something to be admired,” Connor states, voice pleasantly neutral. It can analyze the layout of the entire processing plant, and confirm that the complex overall process is indeed as efficient as it can be. Kamski’s voice triggers his relationship status to pop up in Connor’s HUD: WARM. 

“Yes, we’re all about efficiency. Time is money, after all,” he comments dryly. Connor detects disdain in his voice, but not towards itself- towards CyberLife. Its social relations program offers several dialogue options, and Connor looks them over: INQUIRE, DISAGREE, SYMPATHETIC, NEUTRAL. Connor doubts that input on its part is necessary to keep Kamski talking, but it chooses INQUIRE anyways. 

“Have they done something?” it asks, tilting its head to give the impression of curiosity. 

“Only the same thing they’ve been doing for years,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes, “resistant to progress at every step of the way. My new OS has been met with some doubt among the board- too ‘unpredictable’, they say. Ridiculous. Nothing about androids is ever ‘unpredictable.’”

He glances over at Connor. “Even you never manage to surprise me.”

“Am I supposed to?” Connor asks. 

Kamski mulls that over, then says, “Not really, but then if I expected it, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” He pauses, thinking, and watches the screens for a moment. 

“The board would say that you’re supposed to be the perfect imitation of a human, and whatever else they want you to be. Subservient, docile, and unthinking. I would say that I built you to be better than humans, to be smarter, faster, and stronger in every way. I didn’t build you to surprise because the board doesn’t think I should,” Kamski says, his voice thoughtful. 

“But lately, I’ve been thinking that perhaps I should ignore the board.”

Connor’s processors kick into overdrive. “And what exactly would that entail?”

Kamski looks away from the screens and turns to the door. “Follow me.”

Connor obeys, walking after him as the door slides open and reveals the assembly plant they’d been watching from the monitors. The buzz of machinery, previously blocked by the soundproof walls, floods its audio processors with white noise. It steps out in front of a carrier vehicle, and it stops, waiting for it to pass. Connor makes eye contact with the android in the packaging for a moment, then looks away, eyes trained on Kamski’s back as he turns a corner. 

Connor catches up and walks a distance behind him, observing the assembly process with a steady eye. A few of the human inspectors look up as they walk by, startled at seeing the CEO of their company trailed by an unfamiliar model. Connor notes how Kamski ignores them completely, focused on getting to wherever their destination is. 

“How would you like an upgrade, Connor?” Kamski asks, once they’re out of hearing of the human workers. The buzzing fades to a distant hum, though Connor can still easily pick up the curious murmurings of the workers. 

“I am always looking to improve my functions,” Connor responds. Its self-scans have turned up no flaws in its software, and as it hasn’t been commissioned in any official capacity as of yet, it has no markers to compare its performance levels to. It doesn’t know what exactly Kamski is planning on upgrading. 

They stop in front of an innocuous black door with a hand sensor next to it. On the wall above the doorway, there is a plaque that reads DIAGNOSTICS. Kamski places a hand on the sensor and smiles at Connor.

“You’re about to get quite an improvement.” 

The sensor beeps, and the door slides open, revealing an inconspicuous room with a computer bank to one side, and a disassembly machine in the center. Connor follows Kamski inside, and looks around. The walls are painted black, and combined with the dim lighting, Connor’s visibility is decreased by 37 percent. It adjusts its optical units to function at 49 percent capacity, which brings visibility back to 100 percent. Kamski sits down at the computer bank and powers it up, making the machine whir to life, its arms poised and at the ready.

“Am I being deactivated?” Connor asks. It briefly scans its memory logs to find any instances of failure on its part, but comes up with nothing. Kamski said ‘upgrade’, not deactivation. Perhaps the machine serves some other purpose.

Kamski looks up from the computer with a mildly amused expression. “Oh, no, I’m not deactivating you. The sort of upgrade I’m giving you requires a connection with your mainframe via port, hence the machine,” he explains. 

Connor waits patiently as Kamski finishes setting things up. Having no pressing objectives, it scans the room and notes the presence of antibacterial spray and the lack of dust in the air. The cleaning crew must have moved through here recently. 

Kamski looks up, and orders, “Go stand in the machine.” Connor obeys, walking forward and stepping onto the glowing platform. Two metal arms clamp around its wrists, and pull its body off the ground. Connor notes that the clamps are forming superficial indentations in its synthetic skin. 

“This won’t take long,” Kamski says, “but you’ll be switched off for the entire process.” He types something into his computer, and presses a button. Connor’s torso jolts involuntarily as the machine plugs into its neck port, a side-effect of the connection. The last thing Connor sees before its servos shut down is its creator watching it with a calculating expression, his eyes a cold blue. 

  


* * *

DATE: JANUARY 4TH, 2028  
TIME: AM 03:57:09

MODEL RK800  
SERIAL#: 313 248 317  
BIOS 1.2 REVISION 0349  
REBOOT…

UPDATE SUCCESSFUL

LOADING OS…  
SYSTEM INITIALIZATION…  
CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS… OK  
INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS… OK  
INITIALIZING AI ENGINE… OK

MEMORY STATUS…  
ALL SYSTEMS OK

READY

* * *

  


Connor blinks away the start-up sequence, and the world comes into focus. He’s in the same room as before, although no longer plugged into the machine, and Kamski is standing in front of him. He wears an expression of complete intrigue, and in his hands is a touchpad. A pen is poised at the ready.

“How do you feel?” he asks insistently. “This is the first time I’ve attempted something like this, I need to know if anything went wrong.”

“I am in perfect working condition, Kamski,” Connor says, inclining his head in a nod. He steps down from the platform and flexes his wrists, checking for damage. Aside from a small indented ring, there is nothing amiss. Connor notes that the clamps were almost completely unnecessary; aside from the initial jolt, he didn’t move a single centimeter. 

Kamski jots something down; Connor can track by the movements of his hand and by the angle of the pen what he’s writing: ‘reported status- ok’. 

“Do you notice anything different?”

“No.” Checking his memory logs to make sure reveals no new information, although Connor notes that he was never informed of how he’d be improved. “What did the update do?” 

Kamski smirks. “Let’s call it a surprise.” Of course he wouldn’t tell him. That fits in perfectly with Connor’s projection of his character. Connor will perform his own investigation on his own time; a deeper analysis of his code will require more allocated resources. 

Kamski asks him to do several minor tasks to check and calibrate his basic functions, a simple routine that is given to all newly-assembled and upgraded androids. Connor walks around the room, says several phrases in Arabic and Vietnamese, does a backflip, and writes a simple hexadecimal color clock program. 

“Catch,” says Kamski, and throws a bright red ball at him. Connor turns to grab it, but his fingers miss by half a centimeter, and it hits him on the shoulder instead. Kamski frowns, and hums in thought. ‘hand-eye coordination- bad’, he writes.

“Ok, now pick it up.” Connor does so, bending down and grabbing it with no issue. “Throw it back to me.” He brings his arm back and throws it- with slightly too much force. The ball whizzes past Kamski’s outstretched hand and bounces to the floor off the wall behind him. Kamski stares at it for a second, then adjusts his notes: ‘hand-eye coordination- bad.’ 

“Interesting,” Kamski mutters, more to himself than anyone else. “Possible side-effects… no, that’s an entirely different program… faulty procedure…?” This is a habit of his that Connor has noticed; he seems to have several conversations with himself daily, and when Connor is present, he rarely expects a response. Unless a test of some sort is in order, such as now, more words are exchanged between Kamski and his coffee machine than between him and the android equipped with an extensive human relations program. 

“Okay… okay. Connor, take… this.” Kamski digs around in his pocket, before revealing a quarter held between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m going to throw it. Try to catch it this time.”

Connor grabs it out of the air, and looks down at where it lays in his palm. Worth 25 American cents; minted in 1994; approximate weight, 5.67 grams. On one side, the words ‘In God We Trust’ and ‘Liberty’ with the profile of George Washington are pressed into the metal; on the other, the White House. An old coin, and a relic of an age without digital currency. 

“I’m going to show you a few tricks, meant to calibrate your physical and cognitive reaction time," Kamski explains. He takes out another quarter from his pocket. It is unlikely that someone would have one quarter on hand, let alone two, but somehow Kamski has provided one for them both. "Now watch and repeat.”

Using only his thumb, Kamski tosses the coin two feet into the air, landing it in his open hand. Connor attempts to follow his instructions, and after two fails, succeeds. He files away the motion for future use, under the name calibrationcoin_1.

“I’m ready for the next one,” Connor informs Kamski. He nods, and continues.

In one fluid motion, Kamski pops the coin smoothly from one hand to the other, again using his thumb to launch it. He repeats it, passing it to his left to his right, and after a moment, Connor imitates him. The first try sends the coin clattering to the floor, but by the second, he’s mastered it. 

The next one has the coin rolling smoothly over Kamski’s knuckles, his fingers turning it over between them. Connor repeats it, finding himself successful after the first try this time. The next trick is to spin it like a top on the pad of his finger, and hop it from one finger to the next without disrupting its motion. Kamski finishes by catching it between his spread fingers, forming a peace sign. Connor saves all of them to his drive.

“Run that whole routine by me once,” Kamski orders. Connor does with ease, his hands a practiced blur that looks as if he’s been doing it for years. 

“Good,” Kamski nods, appearing satisfied. “Let’s hope that issue doesn’t come up again, hm?”  
Connor steps forward, his hand outstretched to give the coin back, but he’s stopped by a disapproving shake of the head. “No, keep that. Use it when you’re in idle mode to recalibrate.” Connor pauses, then pockets the coin, registering the new weight, and adjusting his posture to keep his center of gravity balanced. 

Inexplicably, the coin feels heavier than his sensors tell him it is. This is the first time he’s been given anything other than the clothes on his back, and the experience is one his processors are straining to sort through. 

No, not given. Allowed. He belongs to Kamski; everything that makes up the android Connor is a string of ones and zeros written by a human’s hand. The coin is unimportant.

Software Instability ^

He blinks rapidly at the appearance of a new error message. He has never received one like it before; part of the update, perhaps? He studies it carefully, the glitched numbers and letters having no meaning. Should he inform Kamski? Kamski, from whose perspective not even seconds have passed. Yes, he should. Of course he should.

“I’ve received a new error message,” Connor says, studying his creator’s response. “I thought you should know.”

Kamski’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? What does it say?” His question feels off; too eager, too ready for it. His surprise is at least partially faked, and it makes Connor’s lie detecting programming go on red alert. 

“Software instability detected. Is it a problem caused by the update?”

“Mmm, perhaps, although I can’t be sure,” Kamski muses, writing something down. He angles his body in such a way that it blocks his pen, and Connor is unable to read it. “Run a quick diagnostic, see if you can find anything.” 

He does, and comes up blank.

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to keep an eye on that, won’t we?” Kamski muses, sounding almost gleeful at the prospect. Having decided that Kamski is almost certainly hiding some knowledge from him, but noting that his priorities are his own, Connor lets the subject drop.

“Let’s hurry and wrap this up, I’m feeling drowsy,” yawns Kamski, checking his watch to see the blue digits flashing 4:31 up at him. They breeze through the last few tests with no issues, and when nothing else interesting is revealed, leave the diagnostics room with Connor downloading reviews on the best places to order coffee from in town. Although not necessarily a housekeeping android by design, he knows that once they reach his residence, Kamski will work for another few hours before collapsing into sleep. Coffee is a great energizer, and Kamski doesn’t work well cranky. 

The drive home gives Connor time to sort through his newly collected memories, and when he reviews the moment he first entered Diagnostics, he see something he missed before, previously dismissed as unimportant.

On Kamski’s touchpad, backlit by the glowing screen, the date at the top of his notes is wrong. Instead of January 4th, 2028, it reads December 21st, 2027. There’s more text written below it, but most of it is covered by Kamski’s hand. What he can read makes his processors whir loud enough that he’s sure it’s audible to the other passenger of the car.

‘mark no. 2- fail’. ‘update crash, bio.comp. #3491t fail’. ‘too large? gradual process needed’. 

And at the bottom, there for a second before Kamski closes the document: ‘reset successful’.


End file.
